


The Color of the Sea

by prpl_pen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Art, Artists, F/F, Mermaids, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prpl_pen/pseuds/prpl_pen
Summary: An unusually curious and sociable mermaid finds fascination with art--or perhaps it's the artist herself she's most drawn to.





	The Color of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elstaplador](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/gifts).



The lighthouse was built upon a small, rocky island that lay a short swim from the mainland. It was the reason she had settled there. Even on dark nights when the moon hid her face, the beacon from the lighthouse danced across the waves in a way she found comforting.

Her kind were largely solitary as a rule, but she suspected she was an exception. She’d stayed with her mother for as long as she could—fairly _clung_ to her, long past the time she should have swum off to find a place of her own. Her mother had indulged her in this for as long as she could stand it, until, one morning, she’d awoken to find herself completely alone.

After that, she had drifted, swimming rather aimlessly for she couldn’t say how long. She met a few others of her kind from time to time, and enjoyed their company while it lasted, though it was never for very long.

It was the lighthouse that had finally drawn her here, its beacon catching her attention when she had surfaced one night to admire the moon and the twinkling of distant stars. At first, she’d thought it might be a star itself, dipped too low in the sky and floundering, caught in the waves of the sea. Curious, she’d followed the light to its source and, once she arrived at the island, she’d never left.

The place suited her. The waters surrounding it were filled with all manner of submerged rocks and rich with interesting flotsam from the wreckage of human ships that had met their fate before the lighthouse was built.

She understood its purpose now. The old human who kept watch over it had explained it to her when she asked, not long after she’d arrived. She talked to him, sometimes, but he seemed a taciturn man. He didn’t seem to mind answering her questions, but he tended not to look directly at her when he spoke, and rarely volunteered anything of his own volition. Still, he would often wave a greeting to her on warm mornings while he sat on the stone steps of the lighthouse to smoke his pipe.

Other than the lighthouse keeper, the chickens he kept, and a few shaggy, half-wild goats, the island was uninhabited.

It was a surprise, then, to surface one morning and see an unfamiliar figure exit the cottage near the lighthouse and pick a crooked path toward the rocky point overlooking the sea. She was intrigued, not least because she wasn’t quite sure what this new stranger _was_. Her experience with humans was limited, but she’d never seen one who looked like this before. Instead of the split tail she was used to seeing—legs, they called them—this newcomer had a long, wide bottom half. It had layers and ruffled edges that billowed and flowed in the ocean breeze, putting her in mind of a jellyfish.

She watched, curious, as the figure came closer. It was carrying something beneath each arm: a small number of long, straight sticks under one and a flat, white board and a large bundle of black cloth beneath the other. Reaching the edge of the point, the creature paused, laying down its burden before straightening again with the sticks. It pulled them apart from one end and stood them on the uneven ground, where they stayed in place even as the flat board was laid against their upper half.

She had never seen anything like this, and couldn’t begin to guess what this strange human (if, indeed, it even was a human) was doing. Next, it unrolled the bundle of cloth and laid it out, more or less flat, upon a nearby rock and took up another, much smaller, stick. Now it looked out over the sea, bringing a finger up to tap to its pink lips as its eyes scanned the horizon. Now it dropped its gaze down to the white board, gesturing over it vaguely with the small stick, which left faint marks in its wake. Now its brow furrowed a bit in concentration as it looked out over the sea once more.

She could contain her curiosity no longer. “What are you doing?”

The figure started, letting out a small shriek before turning its head to face her.

She sunk a little lower in the water, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The creature’s eyes widened, its mouth forming a small perfect O of surprise. It moved a little closer to the waters’ edge, its eyes never leaving her.

She waited a long moment before deciding it wasn’t going to speak without prompting. “Are you a new lighthouse keeper?”

The creature blinked at her for a moment, then shook its head, laughing. It was a musical, feminine sound, and for the first time it occurred to her that this might simply be what female humans looked like. “No. He’s my uncle. Well, great-uncle.” The human cocked its head slightly to one side, coming closer still. “He told me a mermaid lived here. I thought he was only teasing me, but… that’s what you are, isn’t it?”

She lazily shrugged one shoulder from the water. “Humans call our kind that.” She paused, unsure if it would be considered rude to ask, but she had to know. “You _are_ a human, aren’t you?”

The creature nodded, looking bemused. “What else could I be?”

She lowered her head, blowing apologetic bubbles into the water. “I wasn’t sure. You look different than him. He has all of this hair…” She raised a hand, vaguely indicating the lower part of her face. “And you don’t have the legs.”

The human laughed again, longer and louder than before. She liked the sound of it. “No, no; I have legs! They’re just beneath my skirts, see?” The human bent over and grabbed the ruffled edge of the _skirts_ , lifting them to reveal a dark split tail, roughly the same as the ones she was used to seeing. “And human women can’t grow beards. That’s only the men.”

“Oh.” So this was a female human after all. The first mystery solved, she barreled on to the next, pointing over to the long sticks and the white board. “What are you doing with that?”

“Painting. Or, at least, I shall be soon.” The human came right up to the edge of the island and sat, folding her legs beneath her so they were completely covered by the _skirts_ again. It was easier to see her face from this distance. Aside from her small, rounded ears and the pinkish cast to her skin, the human looked remarkably like one of her own kind—at least from the neck up. Her upper body seemed similar as well, but it was hard to know for sure with all the cloth that covered her.

“But what is ‘painting’?”

The human gave a short shake of her head, but her face remained open and amused. “Good heavens, he said you asked a lot of questions! I never dreamed…” She paused, raising one hand, palm flat. With the other, she tucked the small stick behind an ear. “But now it’s my turn.”

She nodded, trying not to appear too eager. Being asked questions was nearly as exciting a prospect as asking them; she rarely had the opportunity. “Very well.”

The pink tip of the human’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I’m not even sure where to start,” she admitted after a moment. “Perhaps it’s best to defer to polite convention and make our introductions first.”

She didn’t really understand what the human meant, but she nodded slowly anyway. There was a short period of silence, the human watching her with an expectant expression. Then:

“My name is Emilia Mayfield. May I ask yours?”

“Oh, _that_.” Comprehension dawned, but she could only dismiss the question with a vague wave of her hand, feeling a bit disappointed. “We don’t have those.”

The human—Emilia—looked at first as if she didn’t believe her. “You don’t have…? Truly?” Her head tilted slightly to the side once again. “Then what do you call one another?”

“Mother, daughter, sister…” She gave another one-shouldered shrug, unconcerned. “Usually not even that.” She paused, organizing her thoughts before explaining further. “It’s unusual for many of us to gather at the same time, but should we do so, it’s easy enough to tell one another apart without names. We all look different, and—”

Her explanation was cut short by more laughter. “Humans don’t all look the same either! Names aren’t really to tell each other apart, anyway.” A short pause. “Well, not exactly.” Her laughter faded, and her face took on a thoughtful expression. Perhaps she expected to be asked what the purpose of names truly was and was thinking how best to explain.

She needn’t have worried. “So. What _is_ ‘painting?’” The long sticks and the board were still in plain view behind Emilia, and her curiosity about that had yet to be satisfied. Since it seemed they were trading questions, she was determined to unravel that mystery first.

Emilia raised one brow slightly, then looked thoughtful again. “Hm. It’s a type of art—do you know what art is?” She didn’t even wait for an answer, instead continuing in a low tone. “How best to explain this… Art, you could say, is the act of creating something beautiful. And painting; painting is using color to… make a picture?” Her fair brow creased slightly. “That seems too simple an explanation.”

Simple or not, she still didn’t feel she understood. It must have shown on her face, because Emilia tapped her finger against her lips again, then began to stand. “Just a moment. It might be easier to show you.” She walked over to fetch the white board and the bundle of black cloth, then sat on the ground again, laying the bundle open on a small shock of coarse grass. She held up the board, indicating the faint marks on it. “I’d only started sketching when you surprised me, but I was going to paint the sea, and that island you can see there in the distance.” Emilia pointed.

“That’s not an island,” she corrected gently. “It’s a long, thin bit of the mainland that juts out.”

“Oh? Well, I am going to paint it just the same. Can you see where I began to sketch in the shape?” Again, Emilia didn’t wait for a reply before tumbling forward breathlessly. “It’s much different than what I’m used to painting—still lifes, mostly. It’s a challenge to be sure, but so exciting! I wish to be an artist, you see. That’s why I’m here, so I can practice my art and paint with no distractions. Or, at least, that’s part of the reason. I half suspect my father thinks I’ll go mad with boredom here and give up my ambitions altogether. As if I’d meekly return home and finally consent to a match with one of the stuffy old suitors they keep introducing me to!” Emilia made a face.

There was a small laugh, and she was surprised to realize that this time it was coming from her. Laughing wasn’t a thing she often did, but there was something about Emilia’s excited chatter—more even than the face she had pulled—that made her want bubble over with mirth, even though she didn’t understand a fair bit of what was being said. She was unused to having such an enthusiastic conversation partner as well. It was almost overwhelming, but in a way that was nothing less than delightful.

The corners of Emilia’s lips bowed up into a fond smile and she leaned down toward the water. “Let me show you my paints. Can you see from there? Could you come a bit closer?”

She nodded, letting herself bob a little higher in the waves so she could take hold of a nearby rock and pulled herself onto it. Seawater sloshed generously down from her hair, making it easy to slide her tail onto the hard surface without injury. This brought her much closer—enough so that she could have reached out to touch the human, should she have wished to.

“Oh!” Emilia breathed out the word quietly, little more than a gasp, and quickly ducked her head to begin rummaging through her black bundle. A spot of color bloomed on her fair cheek.

She looked down at herself, unsure what had caused such a reaction. “Was my tail surprising? We all have tails like this.” It seemed to her that Emilia should already know this, since she had called her a mermaid, but it was all she could think of to explain her response.

“No, I just wasn’t expecting—you’re completely naked.” Emilia looked up, shyly meeting her gaze, careful not to let her eyes dip any lower.

She merely nodded, unconcerned. “We don’t wrap ourselves in cloth like humans do. Is it for decoration?”

Emilia opened her mouth to speak, then paused a moment, thinking. “You know, I suppose it is, to a degree. More than that, protection from the cold and…modesty.” Her gaze flicked downward for the barest of moments before she turned abruptly to the side, her attention back to the bundle.

The word “modesty” meant nothing to her, but from the context of the situation and Emilia’s response to her lack of adornment, she gathered there must be a taboo amongst humans against going before others without their decoration. That might explain why the old lighthouse keeper tended not to look at her during their brief conversations as well. It seemed nonsensical to her, but then, so did a lot of human conventions. She imagined they might think the same of some of her kind’s own customs.

But now Emilia had straightened again, some objects in hand. “My paint is in these tubes. There are a lot of different colors, but I can mix them together to create even more.” To demonstrate, she fiddled with the top of one of the tubes and squeezed a tiny amount of its contents onto a small tray.

She gasped in surprise at the intensity of the hue. She had no other word for it than blue, for it put her in mind of the color of the sky, but never had the sky been so deep and rich, so vivid as this.

Her reaction must have pleased Emilia, for she fairly beamed as she repeated the process with another tube of paint. This time it was a shade of red, though no less intense. She watched with rapt attention, leaning as close as she was able as Emilia used a small tool to blend the two together, resulting in a hue she had no name for at all.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, aware of the air of reverence in her voice. Impulsively, she reached out and touched a fingertip to the color. She felt it faintly against her skin, vaguely cool and wet. She pulled her hand away and stared at it in wonder: there was a spot of color there, impossibly vibrant against her pale skin.

She heard the bright bell of Emilia’s laughter ringing out again, and looked up. When she caught the human’s eyes, her laughter subsided, replaced with a gentle expression of remarkable fondness. “I’m so glad you think so.”

* * *

Over the next few days, a new routine developed.

Mornings were for talk. After waking and catching herself a bit of breakfast, she would return to the point. Most of the time, Emilia was already there, sitting on the sparse grass and sketching in her book. Sometimes her concentration was so great, she didn’t notice at first when she was no longer alone.

She didn’t mind. For perhaps the first time since she was child, she didn’t want for companionship. It was easy to be patient, knowing that soon enough she’d have her fill of conversation. That aside, Emilia and her art fascinated her, and it seemed a shame to interrupt the process, so she was content to wait, quietly bobbing on the waves until such time that Emilia looked up from her book and spotted her. When that happened, without fail, the human would break into a bright and welcoming smile—a smile that seemed to stir some strange, fluttery feeling within her.

She learned a great deal about humans during their talks. Emilia gladly answered any question she had about them, often meandering from the original query as she spoke to volunteer more information than she would have known how to ask for in the first place. She was surprised to find, for example, that there were about as many human females as there were males, at least according to Emilia. She had always assumed female humans were as scarce as males of her own kind, considering she’d never seen one before Emilia. To hear Emilia tell it, there were many more humans in general than she’d ever imagined; it seemed very few of them went out on ships or lived near the sea.

In turn, Emilia asked her own questions about her kind and their customs. She did her best to answer, but oftentimes, she simply didn’t know how to respond. Her kind had no concept of “courtship” and “marriage,” topics that Emilia had to explain to her. It seemed these things were often on Emilia’s mind, for her parents were trying to convince her to give up on her arts and accept a match with a human man.

“ _If_ I should marry,” Emilia declared one morning, in a bold tone that dared anyone to challenge her, “it will only be for love.” She nodded, and Emilia laughed, that joyful sound that she had come to adore so much. “I think I’m nearly out of the woods,” she confided, dropping her voice a bit lower, though there was no one there to hear her words except for them and a meandering goat. “I’m practically an old maid by now, and I suspect I’ve gotten a reputation as an eccentric Bohemian. Suitors are much thinner on the ground these days. Perhaps by the time I return, they’ll all have moved on to the next pitiful young thing.”

She felt her body stiffen a little, unbidden. “You’ll leave here?” It was the first time she had considered that Emilia may not be there to stay. It shouldn’t have bothered her, considering what she was. Instead, the very thought left her feeling hollow.

Emilia paused, her expression blending into a mild mixture of concern and confusion at the question. “Well. Not anytime soon,” she reassured.

During their morning talks, Emilia showed her the drawings from her sketchbook as well. The first time she’d asked to see them, Emilia had been a bit shy about it, protesting, “They’re only sketches, really. Practice. Probably quite dull.”

She’d shaken her head, unable to believe Emilia’s art could possibly be dull. But all she said was, “I don’t mind. I want to see it.”

Any self-consciousness on Emilia’s part seemed quick to fade once she showed the sketches to her the first time. She was utterly fascinated at the way Emilia could bring an image to life with simple marks on a flat page. In fact, one of the first pages of Emilia’s book now bore a smudge and a water stain where she had impulsively reached out to touch it, unable to believe there was no real depth to the form she saw there. She’d felt terrible, quickly ducking back under the waves so that only her eyes and the top of her head were still visible as she blew bubbles of apology.

Emilia had simply laughed, unconcerned, and beckoned her to return. “It’s all right. I told you, they’re only practice.”

In the latter part of the morning, when (as Emilia put it) “the light was right,” they would separate—she to catch a meal and sleep for a time, and Emilia to work on her painting of the sea. She was eager to see what it looked like, filled with all of that miraculous color, but Emilia had said she preferred to wait until she’d made more progress before showing it to her. “A painting takes much more time than a pencil sketch,” she’d explained when pressed. “If you looked at it now, you’d only see a beastly mess.”

She’d protested, of course, just as she had for the book, but Emilia was firm in this. There was nothing to do but be patient, and imagine what the sea would look like when rendered in the impossible vibrancy of Emilia’s paints.

So it was a pleasant surprise, when she’d swum up to the point one morning at the usual time, she saw that Emilia was already waiting for her, but _not_ as usual. Instead of sitting on the meager grass and sketching, Emilia stood, holding the flat board that has once so perplexed her. She knew now it was called a “canvas” and that it was upon this that Emilia used her paints. Her heart swelled with excitement, and she swam up with such speed that water droplets splashed out into the air (though thankfully not onto Emilia or her painting).

Emilia let out her usual amused laugh, though it subsided quickly. “I can see you’re eager. I hope you won’t be too disappointed.”

She began to pull herself up onto a rock for a better vantage. “I couldn’t be.” It was true. She might not have known exactly what to expect, but she also couldn’t imagine any possible scenario in which she could feel dissatisfied with whatever Emilia had produced.

“Mm.” Emilia didn’t seem convinced, merely letting out a noncommittal sound in response. She took a few steps closer to the edge of the island, holding the canvas in front of her. It was facing the wrong way, so the painting remained hidden. “Now. The paint will take some time to finish drying, so you absolutely mustn’t touch it.”

She nodded, grasping the side of the rock solidly with her hands so she would not be tempted to repeat her earlier blunder.

Seeing this, Emilia smiled, then took a deep breath and flipped the canvas so it faced outward. For a moment, she seemed to be making a great effort to remain silent, though the desire to speak was plain on her face. She managed it admirably for the span of a few breaths before finally giving in, sounding more hesitant than she had ever heard her sound. “What do you think?”

Though Emilia had asked her opinion, she didn’t know how to answer. She felt as if she simply didn’t have the words to express the unknowable feeling that welled up in her at the sight of it. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, still taking all of it in. She felt she finally understood what Emilia meant when she said something in her book was “just a sketch.” Both were _art_ , she knew that much, but the richness and detail of this painting far outstripped the drawings she loved to look at. And the color. The _color_...

She heard Emilia shift behind the canvas, clearing her throat in a meek sort of way. “…I have to say, I’m not truly satisfied with it. Perhaps it was too ambitious for a first attempt, but the color of the sea is so lovely, I just had to try painting it. I simply don’t know that I’m cut out for landscapes, especially after so long with only still lifes—”

“No.” Normally, she would never cut Emilia off like that, but she could see the artist had misunderstood her silence. She raised her gaze, meeting Emilia’s eyes above the canvas. “It’s beautiful.” The word seemed far too simple, too common, to describe the painting. It felt insincere. She struggled to find a way to better express the swell of emotion she felt when looking at it. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It makes me feel…”

There she was caught, unsure how to continue, because though the image was stirring up something powerful inside of her, she wasn’t sure what this feeling was called—wasn’t sure if it even had a _name_ , much less how to express it to another. She’d certainly never experienced it before, though it put her in mind of a few familiar things all mixed together. The quiet reverence she felt when admiring the moon and stars on a particularly clear night. The rush of excitement she felt after a brisk swim, zig-zagging through the depths like a child at play. There was even something of the fluttery feeling she got in her chest when Emilia smiled at her. Still, it seemed more than the sum of those parts she could identify.

She could see Emilia leaning forward ever-so-slightly, waiting for her to finish the thought. The expression she wore was an unfamiliar one; instead of her usual laughing smile, her pink lips were parted just so, as if caught in the middle of drawing a breath.

In the face of such anticipation, she had to try again. One more attempt to express this thing she didn’t understand. Dropping her gaze once more to the painting, she drew her hand to her chest, laying her palm atop her heart. She could feel it beating there beneath her breast, no more quickly than usual, and yet something about the sensation felt more powerful than she’d ever noticed before. “It makes me feel like... I’ve been half-empty, and am only realizing it now that I’ve been filled up. A great joy, mixed with a great longing and...and something else I don’t _have_ any words for.”

She expected Emilia to laugh then, at her uselessly vague attempt to put her feelings into words. She was half a breath away from laughing at herself. Instead, she heard a small gasp, and looked back to Emilia.

The human’s eyes were wider than usual, just a bit, and her mouth rounded into a small O--for just a moment, she looked almost stunned, but her expression quickly changed, brow creasing slightly as a look approaching disbelief crept onto her face. She let the canvas in her hands dip a little lower, pausing to moisten her lips. When she spoke, Emilia’s voice was so uncharacteristically soft that she had to strain to hear it over the sound of the waves crashing against the rock. “...do you really mean all of that?”

She nodded instantly. “Yes. Or, at least, I tried to say it as best I could...” She watched Emilia, trying to understand her reaction. She didn’t appear to be upset, though this was so unlike her usual laughing demeanor that she was unsure how to interpret it.

Thankfully, Emilia gave her a cue as her lips quirked upward into a more subdued version of her customary smile. “Thank you. No one’s ever—” Emilia cut herself off, quickly turning away to carefully prop the canvas up against a rock, freeing her hands. When she turned to face her again, she looked more herself. She dropped to her knees, billowing skirts folding beneath her, and reached out one hand toward her.

Somewhat puzzled, she hesitated a moment before lifting one of her own hands in response.

As soon as it was within reach, Emilia took it in her own, clasping her other hand over them. “You’re wonderful. Thank you.”

She shook her head, feeling her pulse quicken a bit at Emilia’s touch. Emilia’s hands were warm and soft—and dry, of course. She wondered if her own hand must feel unpleasantly clammy in comparison. She held perfectly still, afraid any movement on her part would end the moment and this contact between them. “I didn’t do anything.”

The familiar sound of Emilia’s bright laughter rang out, breaking some of the tension she was feeling. “You’ve done more than you know.” Emilia gave the top of her hand a leisurely pat before finally drawing it back. The other hand followed suit, and she moved her own hand to curl against the edge of the island rock, just to keep it from feeling so suddenly empty.

Emilia glanced down to her own hands, now folded neatly together on her lap. A small pause, and then she raised her gaze again to meet her eyes. “Actually, if you don’t mind, could I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation in her reply.

“Well.” Emilia looked uncertain for just a moment, but never dropped her gaze. “I’m glad you like the painting, but I think I can do much better—and no, this isn’t meant as false modesty or anything of that sort; I can see you ready to disagree with me!” The protest that had, in fact, been forming in her wilted instantly at Emilia’s words, and she remained quiet, unsure of where this was leading.

“So, you see, I think there’s merit to what I said before, about not being cut out for landscapes. Even the whole time I was working on it, I didn’t feel quite... _fulfilled_ by the process, I suppose you could say. I thought next I might try something else instead.” Now Emilia began to look almost sheepish under her attentive gaze. She laced her fingers loosely together in her lap, seeming to at last be drawing to the heart of the matter. “That is, I’ve always wanted to try my hand at portraiture, but I’ve never had anyone willing to serve as a model.” Emilia looked at her, a question hanging unspoken in the air between them.

“Model?” She tasted the word, thinking she might understand what it meant from context, but wanting to hear Emilia say it all the same.

“Yes. It means...” Emilia trailed off, shaking her head slightly before starting again. “I’m asking if you would let me paint a portrait of you. A portrait is... I would like to paint a picture of you, like I painted the sea. It would mean needing to have you sit as a reference while I sketch and paint... It’s a long process, so I understand if you’d rather not, but I—it would mean the world to me. Do you think you might want to try, at least? That’s all I ask.”

As she finished speaking, Emilia’s eyes had dropped back to her lap. Perhaps she was afraid of being refused, though she couldn’t understand how Emilia could even see that as a possibility.

“Yes,” she answered, simply, but with great conviction. Her fascination with the art Emilia produced was so great that she wouldn’t dream of refusing an offer to be a part of it. The idea that Emilia would be creating something as remarkable as the painting she’d just seen, but with _her_ as the subject seemed too wonderful to be real. She felt giddy at the very thought.

That aside, the way Emilia’s face lit up when she heard her answer was almost reward enough in itself. Art or no, she felt she would agree to almost anything to see Emilia smile at her the way she was doing now.

“Yes,” she repeated. “Nothing would make me happier.”


End file.
